With a date like that, my recovery is not something I will be taking lightly. I plan to take to my bed for several weeks, summoning courtiers like a sickly medieval prince. They will bring news from the outside world and hummus from Waitrose.

Given that my hernia’s end is now in sight, I thought I might try to provide some tips for those hoping to survive a similar experience …

1) Don’t use it to flirt

Contrary to popular believe, hernias are not an aphrodisiac. You may think the wire mesh that will eventually hold your insides in place is an interesting topic but it is not a sexy one. If the subject happens to arise and a potential partner takes an unusual interest in touching it, don’t get involved. I spent a long evening arguing with a new girlfriend at a motorway services before I finally crying out “Is it me you’re in love with? Or is it my intestines?!” We had some fun but I left in tears.

2) Use it to flirt

‘I’m so sorry, I’ve got a hernia. Would you mind carrying my suitcase up those stairs?’ is a great opener. It weeds out weaker and more selfish potential mates whilst providing an interesting talking point. Try following up with: ‘Is it hot in here or am I being strangled by my insides?’ before asking them to call an ambulance.

3) Treat it like a pet

When you’re first diagnosed with a hernia it can seem like a real chore. You’re not allowed to run or swim and are just one challenging sexual position away from hospitalisation. That’s why it’s so important that you learn to love it. Draw a face on your hernia and you’ll never been short of company. Give it a personality, a favourite TV show and of course a name. Mine is called David Cameron, for tax purposes.

Follow this guide and you’ll be on the road to recovery in no time. If you don’t have a hernia and this post has made you feel left out, fear not. I will be auctioning mine after the operation. All proceeds will go to Waitrose.

Photo of a microphone and stool. At the actual gig, neither were provided. Image: gainesvilleobserved.com.

Take one recent graduate undergoing a major identity crisis. Place in London. Stew with unreliable employment, expensive booze and a generous helping of debt. Strain the graduate. Serve with an unhealthy portion of cynicism.

Perfect with a pint of lager in a dingy basement – the preferred drink and setting of my very first gig.

For as long as I can remember (a year) I’ve wanted to give stand-up a try. As a student, I kept notes of amusing things that I’d observed and for a long time very little came of them. That was probably just as well. Looking back, some of them really were awful. ‘A sign that refers to another sign’, was hardly going to win a British Comedy Award – at least not without some sort of context.

A few months ago, I had a shit day. Naturally, I gorged on sitcoms and stand-up. My gloom readily and reliably faded. Then, somewhere between Comedy Vehicle and Peep Show, something clicked. I had to be part of this. It was time for me to book a slot at an open mic night.

I scoured the web, found a place that looked reasonably forgiving and fired off an e-mail. Within a couple of days I had a date. I was excited for about half an hour then promptly forgot all about it. The slot was over a month away and I had plenty of time.

Fast-forward five weeks and Google Calendar sprung into action. My phone loudly informed me that I had under a week before my first ever gig. I was less prepared and more nervous, than I had been for any exam, driving test or sexual experience.

Over the next few nights I went through the material I did have in order to cobble something semi-coherent together. Then I practised. Relentlessly. In the bathroom mirror, naturally. But also, under my breath on long evening walks, on the bus to work and into the ears of my sleeping flatmates. For the best part of a week, my five minute routine became my life.

The night itself was somewhat surreal. I went with two close friends, both of whom were (not so secretly) hoping I would bomb. My name was called and I stumbled to the front. I looked up at the audience and then it hit me. A massive dose of adrenaline went straight to my head. Suddenly, I was shaking.

I wasn’t expecting to be so phased as this wasn’t my first time in front of a crowd. In the past, I’d given plenty of speeches to large groups, but this was different. Here were thirty to forty people, waiting for me to prove to them that I was as funny as I thought I was. The words finally came and I’m told things went quite well. I managed to cover my various cock-ups and even engaged in a bit of impro. At one point, I offered to strip naked for a member of the audience. It was all a bit of a blur.

When my five minutes came to an end, everyone seemed reasonably happy with whatever it was I had done on stage. A number of the other performers congratulated me – something which was genuinely appreciated.

As the night wore on, plenty of people told me to ‘keep it up’ and ‘find another slot’. The obvious joke lingered and then the moment passed. I had blown my chance for a final laugh but also developed my sense of timing. It was clearly a joke best left for my first Jongleurs gig.

I’m sure that one day, a stag do will find a somewhat more bawdy account of my ‘first time’ utterly hilarious. In the mean time, this one will have to do.

So this is it – the life of a graduate. I am officially unemployed. I have to say, as an avid reader of the Daily Mail, I have been somewhat disappointed. I thought the council would have got in touch about my free mansion by now, but alas, no such luck. Perhaps an asylum seeker took it or the EU gave it cancer. C’est la vie.

I’ve been drudging through job sites, of course, but am finding plenty ways to procrastinate along the way. One of them is Tinder. Tinder is a dating app and it’s awful. I downloaded it partly out of boredom, partly out of crushing loneliness. The app syncs to your Facebook profile and supposedly finds potential partners with similar interests. Sounds like a good idea right? It is just that. A good idea. Yesterday it asked me if I’d like to travel 47 miles to meet with someone with whom I shared just one interest: Marmite.

When not dreaming of a marriage built on yeast extract, I seem to be going through something resembling a belated adolescence. Everything and everyone makes me exceptionally angry. Bad TV. People playing music loudly on buses. George Osborne. In the most pretentious way imaginable, I feel like I am very much in the process of ‘defining myself’ and care far too much about what others think. I’ve become vegetarian and bought some new shoes. I’m even thinking about getting a haircut. In short, I have far too much time on my hands.

But in spite of my gripes, I go to bed each night hugely excited about what the next day has in store. Perhaps I’ll get a bank statement in the post. Or maybe I’ll spot an oddly shaped cloud. Whatever happens, I’m ready to embrace the moment and ride the rollercoaster of life.

Last fortnight, I was lucky enough to be interning at the New Statesman, a left-leaning weekly political & cultural magazine.

It was a fantastic experience. I was given plenty of advice and feedback on my work. I also met a number of writers I have looked up to for a long time and attempted (often unsuccessfully) to hide my pathetic, squealing fandom. I would recommend a placement at the Statesman to any/all budding journalists with an interest in the areas that they cover.

Whilst I was there, as well as helping around the office I was given the opportunity to write on a wide range of subjects. I penned articles on politics, business, TV and feminism.

Originally written for publication in The Boar, Warwick University’s student newspaper.

—

As my three-year holiday (degree) nears an end, I find myself becoming increasingly pessimistic. My dazzling optimism has been engulfed by a cynical alter-ego who holds nothing – and I mean nothing – as possible.

It doesn’t matter how proud your parents are, when you are one of thousands of wannabe journalists, hoping to enter the ever-shrinking sector, having blacklisted half of your potential employers for political reasons, the future doesn’t look bright.

Although this may indeed be a fair assessment of my employment opportunities, it’s a position I’ve voluntarily put myself in. I’ve made my bed (out of unsold newspapers) and am now very much lying in it. What I lament is that I’ve used this self-inflicted destitution as an excuse to dismiss all the good things that have happened and are happening to me. I’ve become something of a grinch.

A few weeks ago I got stuck in the queue at Leamington’s flagship two-story nightclub, Evolve. I was waiting to put my coat away and they’d run out of hangers. “This is ridiculous!”, I cried, expressing a sense of entitlement I didn’t realize I could convey with such conviction. I then made a number of oh-so-funny quips well within the earshot of staff members who were in no way responsible for the hold up.

The next day, I woke to the news more than 200 people had died in a nightclub in Brazil. A fire had broken out – many had been trampled in the pandemonium and others had suffocated. I stopped complaining for a moment. Had my night really been all that bad? Perhaps it was time to take stock.

In a few months, I’ll be leaving a top university with a good degree. In all likeliness I won’t be receiving a call from the Guardian but I won’t be on the streets either. I’ll have a roof over my head. Healthcare. Food. Family and friends. I’ll be afforded far more than a huge proportion of the world’s population and – thanks to our morally bankrupt coalition government – a sizeable number of people in the UK.

Make no mistake, as a generation, we have reasons to harbour resentment. Many of them are justified. We’ve been born into a world in which leaders have dismissed the plight of the poor, ravaged resources and installed corrupt economic systems – bastardized capitalisms – on a global scale. But the vast majority of people reading this have shelter in which they can weather the storm. A safety net. If we want to get angry, we should first count our blessings. We should protest because so many others come up short.

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